


Peter lies about his involvement with the spanish inquisition and then delivers a baby

by andicanthelpfallinginlovewithyou



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Other, Will feature all of nureyevs aliases and some made up, Yall ever write something with no idea if theres an ending within reach?, anyways i just binged tpp and good omens and i wrote this at 1:37 in the morning, as always constructive criticism is encourahed and appreciated, bc thats what this is, i gotta pick something easier to type bc i mispelled encouejed about seven times before giving up, not for peter just in general its a good name, you know whats a good name? Puck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-04-24 13:24:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19174189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andicanthelpfallinginlovewithyou/pseuds/andicanthelpfallinginlovewithyou
Summary: Juno is an angel, and this person is a demon.A demon who smells really, really good.





	1. Chapter 1

Before the angels each had their own domains, they had guard posts. Some had important jobs, like watching over the apple tree, or patrolling the gates and ensuring no animals ventured too close. Juno’s happened to be upon the west wall, where he could perfectly see the ensuing fall of humanity from God’s graces. He watched as the Man and the Woman walked out into the desert, having tasted the apple and its terrible knowledge, now stricken with the power to tell right from wrong. 

There was a presence beside him, and the earthy scent that demons tended to carry, though others smelled more of sulphur than- 

Well, whatever this demon smelled like. 

“Do you think they’ll make it?” the demon asked, eyes narrowed at the tiny specks on the horizon. 

Juno didn’t answer immediately, instead watching the demon’s profile, the elegant and cutting line of his jaw, the tiny indentations where, if he opened his mouth just a bit, demon’s teeth would expose themselves. His wings were poised and alert, ready to dart away at the first sign of danger or rejection, a dizzying array of dark, rich blues, cobalt to navy and shimmering metallic hues between. His pinions were a striking violet. 

The demon caught him looking, and his left eyebrow raised a fraction. “Like what you see, Angel?” 

He tore his eyes away and stared at the horizon. The first storm was brewing, and he could smell it from across the desert. 

“Didn’t you have a sword?” The demon looked down at his decidedly empty hand. “I remember, it was flaming. Where’s it gone?” 

He coughed into his fist, more to buy time than anything else. “I, uh- may have given it away.” 

“You what?” The demon looked shocked, taken aback, and . . . pleased. “You, all angelic grace and obedience?” 

“It’s not like anyone will notice,” he grumbled. “She needed it more than me.” It was another moment before more doubt struck him. “I wonder if I did the right thing.” 

The demon smirked and cast his gaze back over the horizon. The storm roiled. “Be funny, wouldn’t it? If I did the right thing and you did the wrong thing.” 

His wings would have jerked, had he not folded them tightly against his back. He didn’t much like the idea of doing the wrong thing, and he hated himself for doubting, for maybe standing in the way of God’s ineffable plan-

A roll of thunder pulled him from his reverie, and he looked upward. The storm was right over them, and his wings, reddish-brown the last time he bothered to preen, fluttered out from their compact folds, one extending far over his head and sheltering the demon from the rain. The demon grinned and shifted closer. 

“Crawly. And you?” 

“Juno.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wonders just how much bad luck he really could have inherited from smashing all the mirrors in the Winchester Mansion that one time.

_Click._ “Ah-“

“Rita, dear, gem upon Mars, I need a quick Favour-“

“This is RITA! Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you! Or maybe not, if it’s Mistah Glass. Oh, and if it’s Mistah Steele, call twice more an’ I’ll know it’s you, Mistah Steele, an’ I’ll pick up-

Juno groaned, some distance away, though Peter could see him massaging his temples intermittently. “Her-“ A pause, as he tried to remember the name of the technology. “Machine?” 

“It seems so.” The answering message ended. “Rita, we’ve lost-“

“You lost!”

 _”I’ve_ lost the antichrist, I could use one of Miss Franny’s prophecies. I also knocked down the cell network, so that’ll take about four hours, very sorry, okayhugsandkissesbye.” He hung up, willing away the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. “You hit a woman once with your car and it’s like you’re not even friends anymore.”

Juno crossed his arms. “So, due to a hospital screw-up, the Antichrist could be literally anywhere. How does one go about finding the spawn of Lucifer without the immediate help of a hacker-detective who can predict the future?” 

Peter resisted the urge to fiddle with the chain connecting his industrial and lobe piercing, producing the jingly sound he liked to listen to when he was thinking. “The hospital wasn’t a hospital. It was a nunnery.” 

“What does that signify?” 

He half-shrugged, earring jingling. “Just a specificity.” He got the sense that Juno was very annoyed with him. 

Juno shrugged, and started towards the Ruby. “Come on. We’re going to the nunnery, and I need to come to terms with the fact that we raised a child who tried to build a death ray out of a microwave.” 

Peter laughed, the sound slightly strangled as he followed him to the car. “I refuse to let you slander Amaryllis’ inventive nature, Juno. I still think she’s destined for great things.” He paused, hand on the Ruby’s open door. “Besides, it was a shrink ray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, sorry. I’m moving into my first apartment and preparing to go to college in the fall, so irregular updates will be the norm, unfortunately. Also, I will be playing fast and loose with the established Good Omens canon bc frankly they didn’t treat their characters of colour very well and I’d like to rectify that. Please please tell me if anything seems off or insensitive, and I will do everything in my power to fix it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rilla fonds herself in a very different place, and it’s away from prying eyes that she admits to her tears.

Rilla sniffled, and hated herself for it. Her bed was foreign, smelled different from her bed in Mum and Dad’s apartment. Discreetly, she sniffed and scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with the corner of the duvet. Tal stirred briefly in his sleep.   
She’d have her own room soon: Felicity was in the midst of patching up the drywall, from when a teetering pile of sports equipment had fallen and broke everything. Marc’s sledge hockey sled had knocked a hole shaped like a taco in the plaster. 

The wooden floor was cold. She took care to step only on the rug, moving around the loose floorboard where Tal hid his favourite samefoods. She eased the door open and took a moment to thank Tal: the last time she was here, he had greased the hinges so they wouldn’t squeak. 

The hallway was dimly lit by the moonlight streaming into the sitting room. There was a big window, with a plush window seat. She crawled onto the cushion and tucked her feet under her, staring up at the moon. 

Tears began to fall in earnest, and her breaths came squeakily. She missed their apartment on 36th street, with her little bedroom overlooking the river, and her odd neighbours that oftentimes watched her when her parents were off doing science things, Mister Morales (“Call me Chris, Amaryllis,”) always telling her that she’d be great one day, that she’d rule the world, and Mister Steel, in his big coat most days and talking like a gumshoe. She missed science itself; her closet filled with half-finished experiments and scraps she had a quarter of a plot for.

“Rilla?” 

She hurriedly wiped her cheeks and stared into the dim corridor, where Tal was standing, one hand bunched in the hem of his sleep shirt. 

“Did I wake you?” 

“Yes.” No malice, just matter-of-fact. He approached, and sat down next to her. “The stars are beautiful.” 

She sniffed, and nodded. You couldn’t really see the stars in the city, but in this small town, you could just about everything the sky had to offer.   
As she gazed up at the moon, shining coldly down on her face, she felt stretched-out and tired in her nightgown. She felt very, very helpless.

“Can you braid my hair?” she asked, her voice almost hoarse. 

“Of course.” He slipped off the seat and ran back to their room, returning with the orange caboodle she kept all of her hair supplies in. Once settled back on the seat, he retrieved a wide-toothed comb and a hair elastic.

She dutifully turned and faced the wall, where a small river map hung. The Elbow river streamed all the way from the city, bending and curving gently through the valley, cutting the town neatly in half on its way to the ocean. 

Tal was gentle but efficient, easily combing out the tangles in her hair and then back from her forehead. Her curls were divided and twisted together, in a long and neat plait. 

She ran her fingers over the braid with a small smile, turning back and staring out over the town. The river glittered in the distance. 

Tal leaned against her, laying his head against her shoulder. “Do you wanna go to the river tomorrow? I bet there’s some cool specimens we could collect.” He had to stifle a yawn.

She hummed. For the first time since she arrived in Rosebud, her eyelids drooped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for applauding my ambitious three-way crossover. I’m very brave.
> 
> Also, just learned that Rilla is canonically fat and that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Also, Amaryllis is a greek name in addition to a floral name, so you can tear Middle Eastern Rilla out of my dying hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They Meet . . . Again

Juno had decided about two hundred years ago that art was simply not worth the effort of travelling across the kingdom to see it. But, he could appreciate the technical skill it took to paint this church’s ceiling. He could also appreciate the fact that God — based off an inaccurate model, but She never seemed to mind — was mooning the spectators. He enjoyed it so much that he deliberately ignored the insistent pinging in the back of his mind.

Someone brushed his arm, and he jumped. A tall man stood beside him, sharp teeth and sharper eyes hidden behind quartz lenses, wrapped in billowy cloth that blended just about everything he knew about human fashion, and still managed to look expensive.

A jolt of recognition went through him. “Crawly?”   
Crawly bared his teeth, in a slightly threatening display. “I call myself Anais Puck, now, dear. What business does an angel have at the Sistine Chapel?” 

“Thwarting whatever you’re here to do.” His answer was more reflex than anything. One of the clergymen was painted up there. There was a snake biting his balls. 

Puck gasped dramatically, his hand lighted upon his chest, left in the open by a plunging neckline. “Who says I’m here to do any such thing, Angel?” 

Juno really had no idea what demons looked like when they were tempting. He’d spent most of the last few thousand years observing a peasant family down south, and no demons had yet tried to tempt the Penumbras into sin. But, given how Anais seemed very fluid and distracting, even standing still, he could hazard a guess to his intentions. 

“She doesn’t truly care what the great Michelangelo does in his downtime, does She?” 

“Can’t fathom why She would.” He stood on his toes, gazing out over the crowd of spectators. There was a door, behind the holy man, and he could probably get back there quite easily once the service was finished. The tiny, tired pings in the back of his head were more bored than afraid. 

Anais was talking. “Care to settle a bet downstairs? I have money on your principality, but-“

The service ended, and Juno was out of his seat, Anais left in the dust. Juno darted down the aisle and miracled himself past the holy man, slipping into the back door. The pings were getting stronger, but the way ahead was dark. 

A torch lit beside him, held by a long, slim arm. Anais grinned down at him. “Didn’t think you could get away so easy, did you?” 

Juno scowled, and took the torch. “Don’t you have someone to seduce?” 

“Oh, not if it’s going to slip past your scathing gaze, Angel. Tell me, what are you doing?” 

He turned a corner, and followed the steady beacon in his head. Far below the surface, there was a cellblock. In the one furthest from the door, a figure was sprawled on the bench, whistling a shaky tune and humming to himself. 

“Benzaiten, if you make me save your ass one more time-“ 

Ben sat up, wan and hollow but still Ben. “It’s not my fault they thought I was from Sicily. What took you so long?” He gaze slid from Juno to the figure behind him, and his eyebrows rose. “Canoodling?” 

Anais stared down at Ben’s shackles, head tilted. “Why not-“ he snapped his fingers, an imitation of a miracle. The shackles clattered to the ground, and Ben rubbed his bruised wrists. 

“The humans have discovered our binding sigils, Juno, isn’t it fascinating? I had to get a look for myself, you understand.” The door swung open of its own accord, and he strolled out. Juno resisted the urge to smack him, and settled for a well-aimed flick. 

Ben stuck out his tongue and looked up at Anais. “Thank you for freeing me, honourable demon. Hath mine brother sewn kindness unto your soul?”

“He hath not, good angel. I like to keep Her guessing.” Anais turned to Juno and waved daintily. “I shall take my leave. I hope we work together again soon, Angel.” And he vanished, leaving behind a whiff of the strange scent that clung to him. 

Ben grinned at Juno. “Not to incur your Cain instinct, brother, but I think he’s a fine demon to fall for.” 

This time, he didn’t resist his brotherly urges, and Ben only laughed harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benten is always alive in my heart, and canon is less hard and fast rules than fluid and malleable guidelines. 
> 
> Also, the Cain Instinct is an excellent concept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They Meet, but it’s a different They this time

“Dampierre, fetch!” Marc shouted, throwing a tennis ball down the path. Dampierre, a large St. Bernard, bounded after the ball, catching it under his paws. There was a clear moment when he stared at Marc, before deliberately taking the ball and barrelling onward down the path. 

Tal sprinted after him, yelling “Bad dog!” Marc rolled after him, going as fast as his chair could go on arm power alone, yelling at Tal for yelling at  
Dampierre.

Rilla watched them go, and stared up at the canopy. The trees were tall and un relenting, blocking most of the sun, bathing the forest floor in warm green hues. The shade was welcome; it was sweltering hot in the valley, and their dip in the river had only provided momentary relief. 

The leaves rustled over head. She stared harder, hoping to see birds, or maybe a squirrel. 

She could see a pair of bright eyes staring down at her, wisps of dark hair. Someone was up in the trees, probably in a tree house, but she couldn’t for the life of her find where the foliage ended and the tree house began. It seemed that the eyes were free-floating. 

“Hello?” 

The eyes vanished, and the rustling ceased. 

“Rilla!” Marc shouted. It sounded like he was on the other side of the coulee. “Come on!” 

“Coming!” she shouted back, taking one last look at where she thought the tree house was. She thought she saw the hint of violet eyes, but they were gone before she could be sure. 

-

Marc and Tal were indeed already at the other end of the coulee, waiting impatiently for her. Tal was busy hunting through his bag one-handed; his other hand was cradling a snail. 

He looked up when Rilla approached. “Look! It’s almost the perfect specimen! See the pearl?” 

The snail’s shell was a perfect spiral, no cracks or breaks that she could see. Instead of the usually mottled brown, it was a shiny iridescent, shifting to reflect the rainbow. 

She edged closer and took a picture. “She’s pretty. Where’d you find her?” 

Distracted, Tal reached out and pointed at one of the birch trees. “Right there.” He carefully coaxed the snail from his hand and back onto the bark. 

Marc groaned, spinning in circles. “Can we please keep going? I wanna get to the other side of the valley.” 

“Who was that I saw in the trees?” Rilla asked. 

Marc gave her a funny look. Tal looked deep in thought. “I think the Knights have a tree house, but it’s on the other side of town, in Foxgrove.” 

Marc scowled. “I’d rather not spoil the day thinking about them, Tal, let’s hope it was someone else.” 

“It’s Damien he doesn’t like,” Tal told her. “The feeling is mutual.” 

“The moron doesn’t even know what sledge hockey is!” Marc complained loudly. “Of course I don’t like him!” 

“He’s one of the Knights?” Rilla asked, taking her turn with the adventuring pack. It was weighed down with notebooks and snacks and a first aid kit. 

“Mhm. There’s Damien, Angelo, Caroline, and Mira. They play on the local hockey team.” 

If they were mean to Marc, she decided, they weren’t worth her time. “Noted. I don’t like them either.” 

“Thank you!” Marc said, leaning back in his chair. “At least someone’s on my side!” 

“I think if they just talked they’d be friends,” Tal said, tone dead like he had had this argument many times before. “Caroline’s cool. He’s just stubborn.”

-

They continued on, along the river and through the campground and down the railroad tracks, until they found the ice cream wagon. Tal made a happy sound and darted towards the wagon, leaving Marc and Rilla in the dust. 

Marc made a face. “They always park the stupid thing on this lot, and I always get weeds stuck in my wheels.” 

“Do you want me to tell them to move it closer?”

He considered it for a moment, before shaking his head, popping a wheelie and rolling over the uneven terrain. “Maybe later. I want some no-hassle ice cream.” 

The wagon had three flavours: vanilla, chocolate, and twist. She got vanilla, Tal got twist, and Marc got chocolate. They wandered over to a bench to eat their ice cream before continuing on. Tal leaned against her, his leg bouncing up and down. Dampierre was panting under the bench.

Once he was about halfway through his cone, he sat up straight and waved. “Caroline!” 

A girl looked over, with the best cornrows Rilla had ever seen, and a second girl, wearing a peach headscarf and a pair of tortoise-shell glasses. Caroline lifted her chin at them, and started towards them. Two boys trailed after them, one bulky and jovial and red-haired while the other had the beginnings of a moustache painting his top lip, and a head of curly black hair. 

Marc shrunk in his seat, and Tal seemed to regret his actions. “I didn’t know she’s have them with her,” he hissed, when Marc pinched him. 

Caroline and the other girl approached before Tal could punch Marc, seeming more interested in Rilla. The girl with the headscarf felt very magnetic, and Rilla felt her skin tingle as she drew near. “Hullo, you must be Rilla. I’m Mira.”

She hurried to stand, nearly dropping her ice cream. “Yes, hello, I just moved here, it’s very nice to meet you!” She hoped that Caroline and Mira wouldn’t notice Marc being grumpy. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the other boys seemed happy to make conversation and distract him. 

“Damien,” Marc said tersely. “Score a goal yet?” 

“More than you, I’d think,” the moustached boy said loftily, Damien. Mira was talking to her, but she was somewhat distracted. “We’re headed to the city next season.” 

Marc picked at his teeth. “Mm, they won’t send you if you’re rusty. I heard you fucked up a penalty shot, big time.” 

Damien’s cheeks were darkening by the second. Caroline crossed her arms, turning to them. “Are you done with your pissing contest?” 

“At least I can win without giving the goalie a concussion!” Damien snapped, and Rilla was having none of it. 

She pulled the last of her ice cream off of her cone and stormed towards Damien, the brat, and slapped the ice cream into his hair. 

Dead silence followed, Damien staring wide-eyed at her with drips of vanilla running down his forehead, everyone else frozen in the the moment. 

And then Marc started to laugh, and Rilla wiped her hand off on her dress, head held high. Damien’s mouth was hanging open. “Let’s go, guys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this is based on my childhood in a small town in Alberta’s south, where hockey is king and everythig else is optional. Rosebud is a real place, but its much smaller than its pictured here. It does have the river, the railroad, and the ice cream wagon though.

**Author's Note:**

> Every1: angels have white wings and demons have black wings
> 
> Me: unimaginative and boring. Fuck you. 
> 
> This is a thinly veiled excuse to write a wing fic. Side note, playing solitaire while listening to Happy Birthday Mistah Steel is a good way to get addicted to solitaire, and i dont recommend it


End file.
